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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112345">dépaysement</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/poalimal/pseuds/poalimal'>poalimal</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Little Women (2019), Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Assimilation, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Fic in the Time of Quarantine, Gen, Period-Typical Misogyny &amp; Paternalism, 🙃 Ratioed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:16:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,282</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112345</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/poalimal/pseuds/poalimal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I am ruined now for all others / for I have made you my home</i>. </p><p>AU. After Beth's death, Jo receives a heartfelt letter from the Professor and returns to the city to resume her post. She learns of Laurie and Amy's marriage from a telegram from Marmee - she and Laurie never have their attic conversation.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Friedrich Bhaer/Josephine March, Theodore Laurence/Amy March, Theodore Laurence/Josephine March</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>dépaysement</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dépaysement does not translate easily to English, but it means something like disorientation - culture shock - homesickness - being unhomed.</p><p>This fic was inspired by Yann Tiersen's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PwKbEKPCWg&amp;gl=GB">Loin des villes</a> (in Eng.: <i>far from cities</i>) - which I think perfectly captures the dizzying good cheer of Jo and Laurie's youth - as well as the <a href="https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2019/10/how-life-blossomed-after-dinosaurs-died">following quote</a>: </p><p>'Even a recovery that geologists call 'fast' took hundreds of thousands of years, and the world was never the same.'</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>It would be a lie to say that Laurie did not <em>ever</em> think of Jo anymore - and he was not in the habit of lying. </p><p>No, not anymore. In fact, he saw now - as if looking from a great height down over someone else's life - that he had been lying, all those long years, yearning at a safe distance where Jo did not have to see, did not have to know. And for him to remove all illusions at once could have felt like nothing so much as a betrayal to poor, clever Jo, she who was already so dreadfully frightened of change ripping through her golden little world. </p><p>He used to think that Jo, once she learnt the trick of making her family laugh as a child, had escaped so often into her castles of air that she forgot the needing to come out. He knew better now; though they could not know each other in quite the same way. </p><p>And he was glad of it, truly. Amy was the answer to the question he had never known to ask. She kept him in such perfect balance, he wondered how he had ever managed without her. He thought of those cold uncertain days of his bachelorhood, when he had felt certain he would die in misery and pain, like his parents before him, and he shuddered: no, Jo could not have taken him from his loneliness. She did not quite know how to manage with him, when it was not easy. And so these days, she did not try. </p><p>Oh, surely, she wrote them all letters from New York, sometimes pages and pages long, the little slanting switch from writing with her right hand instead of her left popping up every other paragraph after a while; and sometimes a rush of a few sentences only, along with a bit of spending money for Meg and the children, maybe even a clipping of something she'd had published. And she came out to Concord once every few months the same darling, gay Jo, never cold with him, or stern, or indifferent. </p><p>Only - she somehow contrived to never be alone with him.</p><p>'Why, my dear brother Theodore,' she would say, clapping him briskly on the shoulder, somehow always on her way out of doors when he was on his way in, 'have you lost your better half?'</p><p>He had not noticed for quite some time, so deep in the flush of marital bliss, so he was not sure whether he was allowed to mind it once he did. He found Jo always looked rosy-cheeked and robust when he saw her these days - no doubt a result of her abrupt and not infrequent hikes away from him, he thought at first, somewhat uncharitably.</p><p>But no - it was different than that, he came to see. He peered at her over dinner one week-end in spring, over roasted hen and cornbread, trying to figure out what it was. </p><p>He looked and saw that Jo had her eyes in the window, a thousand miles away; and there was a spark there that he had not seen in quite some time. A hunger.</p><p>Laurie adjusted his seat, discomfited somehow. Perhaps he was seeing in others what was true of himself - he had barely eaten. When he glanced up again from his plate, Jo was lively and spirited once more - alight at the dining table with her usual glow. </p><p>Perhaps he had imagined it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He put it out of his mind. He travelled to London on business, and stayed there twenty days. He was careful with his drink, and his words. He was faithful. Mr Pritchard told him marriage had turned him cold - but Mr Pritchard had always found him cold. He saw women in chesterfields and caped ulsters and sent away for two of each for Amy. Men's fashions were, as ever, sober and disappointing - still, he followed them well. He kept his hair cut carefully short. The night cream he bought worked a treat - he was not turned out of any establishment for being too dark. He read business and finance periodicals, he went to the opera with clients, he lead all conversation away from anything too political. He certainly engendered no opinion on the War of the Romantics, nor on Josiah Henson, nor on any other controversial matter. His grandfather would have been proud, were he there to see it - but travel was too hard on him these days.</p><p>He missed Amy. Why the devil had he not brought her along? He had thought it would look-- he had been thinking of how it would look. As if he could not do without his wife on business. Well - it seemed he could not do without her. </p><p>He wrote her many letters.</p><p>He did not think of Jo specifically; and he did not ask of her, specifically. Amy did not mention her at all.</p><p>When he disembarked at New York almost two months after leaving, Amy was there awaiting him already, as perfect and as pristine as she had been when he had left. She cut a fine figure there in the crowd, her new hat pushed forth upon her forehead with flowers and dark pinned lace. He smiled to see her - he felt rather tired. </p><p>The train that went to Concord was quite crowded for a Thursday afternoon. Laurie sat beside his wife and listened to her fill in the gaps between letters. He fell into her voice, on the precipice between sleep and wakefulness. He was sorely glad to be going home.</p><p>'The Hampsteads will want to have dinner, now that you have returned,' Amy was saying thoughtfully, as the carriage pulled up toward their home. She was using her planning voice, of which Laurie was so hopelessly fond. 'And once Jo has recovered, I think--'</p><p>Laurie opened his eyes and sat upright in his seat. 'Recovered from what?' he said. 'Has Jo taken ill?'</p><p>In the dark of the carriage, Amy recoiled from him. Laurie let go of her hand, which he had gripped too firmly, and tried to give her space to respond. It was-- it was improper, to treat a lady so roughly.</p><p>'My sister is,' Amy said, her voice tentative somehow, 'she is not well.'</p><p>Jo? </p><p>Jo not well? </p><p>It was not possible. Not Jo. She could not-- she was not allowed to get ill. No-- well, of course she could get ill. It wasn't that, it was just-- he shook his head. There must be something he was misunderstanding. 'You waited to tell me in person?' he asked. Somehow his heart shook, and it showed in his voice.</p><p>'Yes,' said Amy, 'I did wait. I am-- Laurie, I am sorry.' She took his hand again, and he let her. And he could sense from her that she was truly very sorry. But sorry about what? He did not understand - was Jo truly so unwell? He had not heard anything about this. Even with Beth-- </p><p>Even with Beth, he had... he had thought she was recovering. He had wanted her to recover, even though it had wounded his pride to think of her, back then, as it had hurt to think of anything Jo loved dearly. But he had loved her himself, and he had swept off to Europe without even saying goodbye. He had written one letter to her and she had died before he had figured out all that he had wanted to say in it. And she had never known-- she had never known--</p><p>'Why, Laurie,' said Amy, shocked, 'you are crying.'</p><p>They were home. Jeffrey and Matilde were carrying in all of his luggage, while he sat in his grand carriage, frightening his dear wife, and carrying on like some grubby, useless child.</p><p>'I am sorry,' he said, wiping his face briskly with his handkerchief. 'I am fine. I was--' He nodded, abruptly. 'I must be tired.' He nodded again. 'I must be tired.'</p><p>He got down out of the carriage, and helped his wife down, too. He followed her into their home. For a single moment the house loomed large above him, as it had all those many years ago - his vision seemed to swim.</p><p>But Rebecca and Laura were at the door, oh, and dear old Granddad, too, all there ready to greet them. The house was alight, everything golden and lively now that he had returned. Someone mentioned supper - and wasn't he hungry? Yes, very. He lost his overcoat somehow. Rebecca must have taken it from him, or Laura, maybe, and put it away for cleaning. He needed to bathe - he needed to wash the days of ship living from his skin, the hours on the train and in the carriage.</p><p>Yet somehow he could not breathe. He walked away through the dark music room where Beth had once played - where his own father had played, once - he kept walking until he was at the patio door. He opened the door - the air was fresh and cool - all was dark and green and quiet - and still he could not breathe. One step into the dark he took, then another, and another: on a path he could've walked in his sleep.</p><p>It had rained recently. These shoes are much too fine for mud, he thought  irritably. He almost lost his footing coming down the hill to the March house. What made him wear such useless shoes? He staggered towards the door to the house, for he saw the light of candles through the window. It was impolite to call so late, he knew; he simply could not catch his breath.</p><p>He knocked on the door - and remembered all at once that Jo was back in New York. </p><p>His face went hot with embarrassment, but he did not step back in time. All too soon the door opened, and Marmee stood there, wrapped in a shawl and staring at him in amazement. </p><p>'Laurie?' she said. 'What are you doing here? Is Amy well?'</p><p>'I am sorry,' he stumbled backwards, trying to keep to his feet, 'Amy told me Jo was sick. I was-- I forgot she would not be here.' </p><p>Marmee looked very concerned. 'I,' she shot several glances over her shoulder, 'Laurie, you do not look well-- I will get Mr March to carry you home.'</p><p>'Oh, Marmee,' said a voice, 'please just let him in.' Marmee turned away and shook her head. </p><p>In the gap she left behind, the light from the hearth shone out into the night - and into that gap stepped Jo, a shining picture of health. She had ink all over her fingers, her face was radiant and full - though its expression dubious - her hair was combed down and clean. She had on that same worn plaid house dress that went down to her ankles only-- or no. Now it went below her shins only. </p><p>Laurie looked her over again - Jo looked back at him, her lips pressed together. She did nothing to hide her gravid belly, nor her naked left hand.</p><p>Jo was not sick at all - she was ruined, only.</p><p>'Oh, thank God,' said Laurie, heartfelt. He fell at her feet and knew no more.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He turned in his sleep - he sighed - he said her name.</p><p>'Oh, Teddy.'</p><p>He awoke - she was not a dream. She sat in a chair beside the bed. He was laid out in Beth's old room, he saw.</p><p>There was a tray of food on the dresser. And sitting beside the dresser, wringing her hands over her stomach, quite plainly worried, was Jo. </p><p>He did not know how, but he knew, watching her in the moonlight, that she was thinking about Beth. And suddenly the words he had never known how to say came to him quite easily.</p><p>'Jo--' he began.</p><p>Dread rose up like a veil in her face - still, she did not avoid his gaze. 'Eat first, Teddy, and then we'll speak,' she said. 'How many meals did you forget this time?'</p><p>He sat up in bed, only a little dizzy. 'I don't know,' he said carelessly. He could find no embarrassment within himself over it, though he had not forgotten to eat in many years. They were both here now, and there would only ever be truth between them. That was all that could matter.</p><p>He tucked into his food carefully at first, then ravenously, sopping up the cold cottage soup with the stiff wheat bread till there was nothing left. He felt much more like himself - he felt he had not eaten so well in months.</p><p>Wordlessly, Jo took up the tray from his knees and removed it once more to the dresser. For some moments they stared at each other without speaking - Laurie's face grew inexplicably warm, and he had to look away.</p><p>'I need to say something,' he said. 'I should've said it long ago, after the wedding, but I didn't-- there was never any time. So I will say it now, and then we will put it away forever--'</p><p>Jo grasped his hands warmly, and squeezed them till he looked up. A lump came to his throat as he stared into her eyes - and his voice died in his mouth.</p><p>'It is alright, Teddy,' Jo said softly. How his heart ached when she said his name. 'I put it all away long ago. All those years... I treated you like one of my stories. I tried to drape it all in fantasy... to cross out all the parts I didn't like... I built you into air.' She took in a deep breath. 'I know now why you threw it all off when I could not marry you. I did not understand at first - I thought only of my own loneliness. But I-- I understand now. It was always going to be painful, to end the lie. You needn't say a thing.' </p><p>She pulled away her hands - her gaze drifted to the window behind him, and all the many miles outside of it.</p><p>Letter after letter she had written him in London and Paris and Rome. He had thrown them all away, unread. Beth had died - and he had only known how to face Jo with a wife at his side. For he had thought himself little in her eyes. </p><p>He saw how he had made himself little; how he had made so little of her love for him that she said it must have all been a lie - that she had sought out whatever faithless cur had left her like this.</p><p>Laurie swallowed hard. 'It is not a lie,' he said, 'that we loved each other.' </p><p>Jo looked again at him, wandering with her eyes all over his face. And his heart beat hard in his chest.</p><p>'You did not love me as your sister,' she said. </p><p>He took her hand in his. 'And you will not love me as my wife,' said Laurie, kissing the back of her hand impishly. 'Aren't you very glad?'</p><p>Jo pulled back in surprise. 'What?' She laughed incredulously, a blush in her cheeks. How lovely she looked - how full of light and life.</p><p>Laurie smiled. 'You said you would not marry,' he said. He dipped his head at her. 'I see now you meant it truly. Aren't you glad, then, that we did not marry?'</p><p>'Of course I am glad!' said Jo, rising to her feet. 'I am happy for you and Amy - truly.'</p><p>'Well, why should you be happy,' Laurie said, 'if all we were together was a lie?'</p><p>'You have promised my sister happiness,' Jo said, lifting her chin stubbornly, 'and that is reason enough.' She looked at him long, her indignation soon fading into uncertainty. She stepped to the side, away from the chair - he fought not to reach out a hand. 'I should-- I should fetch Marmee, or Amy. They are sleeping, and I--'</p><p>'Please, Jo,' he said quietly. He had promised himself he would never beg her again - he found it a lie easy to bear. 'Please do not leave.'</p><p>Jo shot him a look of concern, but again sat back down, her belly pushing back the space between them. 'There is nothing to leave, Teddy,' she said, not unkindly. 'There is nothing left.'</p><p>Laurie's heart sunk into his stomach. 'Then I am done for, Jo,' he said baldly. 'For I cannot do this without you. My world is too little when you are not in it.'</p><p>'But Amy--' said Jo. Her voice sounded so small - as if she were a child. But they were neither of them children, anymore.</p><p>'Amy is my wife,' said Laurie. 'And you are my greatest friend.'</p><p>Jo looked at him as if he had hurt her again. 'You did not treat me as a friend does, Teddy.'</p><p>'No, I didn't,' said Laurie, immediately agreeing. 'For I wanted to punish your pride. Do you understand? I love Amy truly, and I will love her all my life - but I was glad to fall in love with her. I knew it would hurt you - I cared for my happiness only. I thought I owed you nothing. I-- I built up my pride like a wall, and told myself it was enough.'</p><p>Jo shook her head back and forth again. 'It has to be enough, Teddy,' she said. 'It simply has to. We cannot continue on as we once did.'</p><p>'Who says we cannot?' he said in a rush. 'You should've married me because of what people say - you should be married now because of what people will say--' Jo's eyes flashed dangerously '--but we aren't, and you're not! So <em>who says</em> we cannot be friends as we once were?'</p><p>'I say, Teddy,' said Jo. 'For you come to me out of your own agony, and you care nothing for my own.'</p><p>Laurie saw the truth of Jo's feelings in her face; and he relented, and he sat back with his hands in his lap. </p><p>It was truly ended, then.</p><p>'I see,' he said. 'Well. I can only say... that I care for you quite deeply, and that I always will. I am sorry I treated you so poorly when you needed me. I am sorry I left you all alone. I will-- try to treat you as a brother should, if I can be nothing else.'</p><p>All was silent, there in that room - for what else was there to say?</p><p>Finally Jo took in a deep breath. 'Well,' she said, 'you do not look as though you relish the prospect much.' She changed her voice, then, so it sounded light and airy: 'And here my sister said you were quite cheerful, when you met in Paris.' Laurie shot her a dubious look. Jo looked back at him in a way he could not read, before she took in another breath and began again: 'My sister has... she's told me quite a bit about her husband, but I-- I look forward to getting to know you myself.'</p><p>Laurie was still confused. Jo went rather red.</p><p>'Oh, forgive me, please! I'm doing this all backwards,' she said, laughing shakily. 'I haven't even introduced myself. Let us start over: I am Amy's sister, Jo,' she put one hand on her belly, and thrust out the other in his face, 'and I think that we will be great friends.'</p><p>Laurie slowly took Jo's hand in his, barely daring to breathe. He looked at her once more, at her ill-fitting dress, at her hand which fit so well in his; and he smiled, his heart alive again at last. He shook her hand firmly - a promise he would not break.</p><p>'Yes,' he said, 'I think we really must.'</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>- Ah, Jo! By remaining unwed in this most recent film portrayal, by choosing a life of labour - albeit a life of creative labour, made possible in part by Irish immigrant Hannah's domestic labour for her family, as well as the slave labour which serves as the basis for the U.S. economy (<i>Everyone benefited from the system, including you Marches - why should only the [S]outh be punished?</i>) - Jo flatly rejects society's expectations for her as an impoverished but genteel white woman. </p><p>- Ah, Laurie! Whiteness seems a strange cloak for Laurie for me - being Italian, even half-Italian, was sufficiently Other enough in the time in which he would have lived. Coming to America all alone as an orphan, he must have felt very much like an outsider (as we see in his first scene with Jo), and there would have been an enormous pressure on him to conform from a young age. I think in proposing to Jo, he was attempting to reject some of society's expectations of him, too. In rejecting Jo entirely after being turned down - and then marrying her sister! - I think... I think Laurie was just being an ass.</p><p>- The idea of a <i>ruined woman</i> is in many ways dependent upon certain notions of whiteness and purity. It is a woman who is thought to have 'lost' her chastity or innocence by virtue of having had sex outside of a sanctioned marriage. Note that rumour can serve as the basis for ruination. Even if a woman comes from a permissive household, if she has a child out of wedlock, she would almost certainly qualify as 'ruined'.</p><p>- In ideal circumstances it would take around <a href="https://transportgeography.org/?page_id=2135">8-9 days to make a transatlantic crossing by sail</a> in the 1860s/1870s - so going from New York to London for only twenty days might not be worth the time or expense.</p><p>- I do not remember seeing any patio outside the music room of the Laurence household in the film. Consider it a bit of architectural innovation.</p><p>- The <a href="https://pmcvariety.files.wordpress.com/2019/12/little-women-by-greta-gerwig.pdf">actual line</a> Laurie uses in the film upon seeing Jo after so long away is: 'Jo, I want to say one thing, and then we’ll put it away forever. I have always loved you; but the love I feel for Amy is different - you were right - we would have killed each other.' What a thing to spring on a sleeping woman!</p><p>- The timing on the traditionally masculine <a href="https://fashionhistory.fitnyc.edu/1870-1879/">'chesterfields and caped ulsters' </a> Laurie notices on London ladies has been pushed up by a few years. Laurie's notes on Amy's new hat were pulled in part from <a href="https://vintagedancer.com/victorian/victorian-hat-history/"> Vintage Dancer</a>.</p><p>- Josiah Henson was a notable abolitionist, author and clergyman, who fled the U.S. into Canada with his family to be freed from slavery. He travelled to London on at least two occasions: once, in 1851, to show something at the Great Exhibition (perhaps the only black person to do so), and again, from 1876-1877, at which point he met the queen Victoria at Windsor Castle. The timing of his inclusion in this story is off by more than a few years either way. More info can be found <a href="https://www.africansinyorkshireproject.com/blog/josiah-henson-in-britain-1876-1877-17-may-2018">here</a> and <a href="http://frederickdouglassinbritain.com/abolitionists/JosiahHenson/">here</a>.</p><p>- The War of the Romantics... eh, was ideological. I cannot provide a fuller author's note. The minute I read of noted anti-Semite Richard Wagner's involvement, I lost all interest. </p><p>- Cottage soup is kind of like a savoury soup - it seems there are <a href="http://recipespastandpresent.org.uk/victoriancooking/soups.php">some</a> <a href="https://www.cookstr.com/recipes/baked-cottage-soup">variations</a>.</p><p>- The picture of health that Laurie paints when looking at Jo in the doorway was, as far as I can see, a very unfashionable look for the time. For young white women in the Victorian period, it was apparently considered quite romantic to look <a href="https://listverse.com/2016/05/20/10-dangerous-beauty-trends-from-the-victorian-era/">thin, pale and flushed, watery-eyed, and near death</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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